Some thoughts on the unthinkable

In 1999, I was a graduate student at Northern Illinois working toward certification as an English teacher. One April evening, the class I was taking did not did not have the usual discussion on curriculum and pedagogy. We talked instead on the tragic news of the day. Among other topics, our instructor asked us if the horrific shooting at Columbine High School affected our desire to become teachers. My answer was impulsive, but true. I wanted to teach more than ever. Honestly, I can't remember what my exact explanation was in the moment, but I know I that day moved me from looking at teaching as a job and into seeing it as a vocation. Unfortunately, it also made it very real that schools were not safe from the world's evils. A few years later, I stood in my own classroom flipping through the school's "incident manual" and thinking through ways that I could possibility protect students of my own in a similar, horrible situation. Then NIU itself suffered through a tragic shooting and the feeling was not just "How could this happen?" but also, "Why, here? Why so close to home?"

Friday's violence in Connecticut was not physically close to home, but the grief it brings is so physically real. Those children, those beautiful, sweet children, were the same age Erik and his friends. I think I heard the beginning of the news on the radio early in the day, but it didn't register in my mind what the announcers were saying. Thinking it was about the recent mall shooting in Colorado, I turned off the station quickly, as I usually do when any of my kids are in the car and news of violence is reported. Just before heading out to pick up Erik at the end of the school day, I checked my email. The public schools sent out a message recommending ways to address the situation in Connecticut with children. Confused, I checked the news. And then I started crying. I did not wait in the car line to pick up Erik. I parked and stood where his class lines up. I watched the faces of other moms and dads who were all visibly distracted and upset, but trying to keep their emotions out of view of the kids. I took Erik's hand as soon as I saw him and we all went home, where -- for once -- I ignored the clutter and I sat with my kids. There were not enough hugs, kisses or books to be read to satisfy me.

Almost every night, I end William's bedtime routine by singing the last verse of "Away in a Manger" If you've forgotten, it goes like this: "Be near me, Lord Jesus/ I ask thee to stay/ Close by me forever/ And love me, I pray./ Bless all the dear children/ in thy tender care/ And take us to heaven/ to live with thee there." Saturday night Anna was in the Preschool Christmas Worship service (with a cute little sheep hat, singing every word right in the center of the stage). This morning, Erik was in his Sunday School Christmas service (as a wise man, who sang almost every word, when he wasn't grinning at his friends, the shepherds). In both services, the kids and congregation sang "Away in a Manger." Both times, I first thought it was sweet that William  seemed to think we were all trying to sing him to sleep. By the second verse, though, I was crying. I was crying for the children and teachers who won't be celebrating Christmas, or any other holiday, with their families. And I was crying because I can't protect my children. I can do my very best to take care of them when they are sick, to make them fasten their seat belts, to teach them not to talk to strangers. Their school will lock the doors and use every safety procedure. It may not be enough.

The thought of letting any of the kids out of my sight is now terrifying. Erik and Jamieson went to the final event of his Lego club Saturday morning, a big open house and competition. When I got there and saw a police car parked by the entrance I felt relieved that someone there could keep all the kids safe. Then the squad car drove away and I wondered if the dads manning the entrances really knew what they were doing. Sunday morning during church, William got squirmy and I was about to take him to the nursery, but I just couldn't. I wanted to hold him and listen to Pastor try to assure us that God really is in control, not worry about who might be coming in to the building and walking down the hall. In the morning, every parent in America has to let their child go to school and trust that it will be okay. We will see them again. We will serve snacks and dinner, and do homework and argue over how much computer time is okay and read to them and tuck them in with a kiss. Please, God. Please bring home safely. Every last child.

I will take Erik to school. I will not drop him off in the car line. I will walk him to the classroom. I will give him a hug. I will exchange glances with other moms that say we will be praying for all of them all day. I will try to fill my day with business so I can stand the wait till he comes home. I will pray and pray and pray. I will pray God protects my child. I will pray God gives his teachers wisdom and courage. I will pray for the peace of the families grieving right now. I will pray that God gives me peace, too, because I  know that He loves all these children more than even moms and dads. I know they really belong to Him. I also know that He gave them to us to take care of. We love them. I love my children more than my very own life. And I do not want to give them up. Ever. Please, God, help us all.

Well done

As I was backing out of the driveway to take the kids to school, I observed that it was a wet and foggy morning. That, I said, was why I decided to exercise safely inside instead of running outside in the dark and fog.

"You made a good choice, Mom," said Erik.

Aw. Positive affirmation for moms.